


took off the angel's halo (placed a crown on my heart)

by sadnpsychounicorn



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Abstract, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Based on a Music Video, Blood and Violence, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language, Not Beta Read, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Some Fluff, Some Plot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-28 13:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadnpsychounicorn/pseuds/sadnpsychounicorn
Summary: Mark is Donghyuck's.But Donghyuck isn't Mark's.Mark wakes up on the beach again, the familiar feeling of despair fresh and heavy in his heart.





	took off the angel's halo (placed a crown on my heart)

Mark wakes up on the beach again, the familiar feeling of despair fresh and heavy in his heart.

The saltwater soaks through his clothes. A nice dress shirt, once white but now soiled brown with sand and ocean. And blood. His once-pristine black suit is ruined beyond repair as well. Mark’s freezing, chills intruding in his body all the way through to his bones. He shivers, curling up more tightly among the gentle waves that are nothing compared to the internal turmoil Mark is enduring right now.

Everything hurts. His ribs ache with every ragged breath that he draws into his lungs. He coughs and he can feel the faint tang of iron and blood on his tongue, along with the disgusting grit of salt and sand that has undoubtedly found its way between his lips. His joints feel heavy, so heavy that it takes all of Mark’s strength to lift himself up onto his hands and knees. He coughs again and spits, his saliva tainted a grotesque yet intriguing pinkish color. Mark can barely see the scratches marring his knuckles through his swollen eyelids.

There’s something clutched tightly in his fist. He uncurls his fingers, wincing at the small action that makes beads of pain dig themselves into his fingers. It’s a white slip of paper. Mark unfurls it, sitting back on his haunches as the forlorn seawater surges around him. The ink on it is smudged, so Mark barely see the print on it. He can’t see the exact digits, but he can discern that it’s a very large number. Mark loosens his grip on it, letting the number fall to its oblivion in the vast and unforgiving sea.

He needs to get off of this beach, filled with both bad and good memories.

_The sand beneath his feet, squishing in between his toes. Ankle-deep in the water, laughing and splashing and caring for nothing. Soft hands, brushing his. Their fingers are intertwined and Mark feels invincible. A high, airy laugh pierces the air, joining the chorus of the waves in the background stretched out in front of them. Mark thinks that it’s the best and most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He closes his eyes, stretching his arms out and tilting his head back, and feels the wind ruffle his hair. He wants to cherish this moment, live inside it forever. The breeze caresses his face, and so does another gentle hand that doesn’t belong to him._

Mark opens his eyes. _No_. Those thoughts do not belong in his head. They should’ve never been there in the first place. He needs to get off of this beach and get back to rest and recuperate. Mark crawls pitifully out of the reach of the tide, which seems to pull and call him back, calling and crying out for his body. Mark manages to stumble to his feet, nearly tumbling over again in the process. His feet sink into the soft earth beneath him. He’s missing a shoe. Turning his head around, Mark’s eyes comb the waves, and spot his other black leather shoe drifting in the water among the foam. He dismisses it with a mild shake of his head. He can afford to lose a shoe. It doesn’t really matter at this point, does it?

He trudges through the sand along what seems to be an endless beach until he comes to a concrete path. He follows it without hesitation, panting as the incline becomes steeper with each step. It feels like he walks for hours, each step feeling like a mile. His legs threaten to give out, but he forces himself to keep going. He needs to do this. Mark realizes how cold he is only when the wind picks up, making stray strands of hair flutter into his eyes. They sting from the salt, but Mark wipes the hurt away with the back of his ragged sleeve and continues. The daggers of air seem to pierce him without mercy.

The road winds and winds and winds. Mark wants to give up. _Keep going_ , something says inside of him. So Mark obeys and he does. He can make out the bare silhouette of a structure in the distance. Is that what he’s heading towards? He picks up his pace, leg muscles and airways screaming at him in protest. Mark steels his nerves and starts to jog. It’s a weird gait, with him slightly limping from the fatigue and the lopsided shoe and no-shoe. Every contact with the ground sends a jolt of pain up his calves, which streaks into his thighs and jars his spine as well. The building gets closer and closer.

By this time, the natural light has diminished around Mark. Afternoon sunshine has melted into a golden glow, which is slowly getting dimmer and dimmer. Mark is close enough to the structure that he can see it’s an elaborately-designed residence. It’s his, some buried instinct reminds him. Mark steps up the stairs to the front door, beaten feet automatically carrying him somewhere that his body has been thousands, perhaps millions, of times. His sore hand rests on the doorknob. He turns, eyes greeted with the stunning sunset and the glittering expanse of ocean.

_“I’ll race you!” “No way, you won’t win!” “Watch me!” Endless laughter as they race up the hill. Mark’s spirits soar as he looks behind him to see that he’s winning the mini-competition that they have every time they go back to Mark’s house from the beach. “You can’t catch me!” “Yes I can!” Mark stops jeering and quickens his sprint, short legs pumping as fast as they can. He hears puffing behind him, and he stifles laughter. He needs to focus. He needs to win this. “I win!” he proclaims joyfully as he takes the steps two at a time up to the door, turning around in triumph to see his opponent comically behind. “No fair! You always win!” “It’s because I’m older and better,” Mark says haughtily. His rival pouts, but disappointment is quickly forgotten as Mark shouts and points, “Look!” There’s a splendid array of colors lighting up the sky this evening. The sun is being swallowed by the horizon in a beautiful display of bronzes, navies, pinks, and purples._

That’s what Mark sees now. He hums at the memory playing behind his closed eyelids as he temporarily basks in the golden glow, finding solace in the small instant of warmth. But the small revelation of fondness is enveloped by the ever-growing hole in Mark’s chest. He sighs drearily, coming back to his senses and the lassitude overtaking his tired body.

Mark turns the handle, immediately sensing that the house is empty. Has been for a long time. It looks lived in, sure enough, but its walls seem to echo that it’s missing something.

Someone.

Mark sighs, kicking off his solitary shoe and tossing it in the garbage. Nobody needs one shoe. Mark feels like the one shoe. Incomplete and useless without its partner, its other half. Mark chides himself for making such stupid and melancholy metaphors. Nobody cares. It doesn’t matter. He also shrugs off his ruined suit, shirt, and undergarments. They join the single shoe inside the trash. Mark shivers, gooseflesh arising on his skin.

He staggers weakly to what he assumes is the bathroom. It is. There’s a shower, a toilet, and a sink. He catches a glance of himself in the mirror. He looks like utter shit. Bruises and marks mar his face, discoloring it in practically the entire color wheel. His upper lip is split and swollen. His nose looks a little bit crooked, like it’s been broken before. Maybe it has been. In addition to all his wounds, Mark doesn’t quite feel like he’s in his own body. Is this really him? He gingerly brings his hands up to his face, touching the planes of his cheekbones and eyebrows carefully, examining the unfamiliar areas of skin. After studying himself for a few moments, Mark ceases, but isn’t satisfied.

He steps into the shower, scarcely able to maintain his balance. He turns the flow of water on, flinching as the first spurt comes out cold, but settling down as it turns warmer. Mark lethargically scrubs the sand off of himself, careful to avoid angering the bloody scratches and bruises littering his body. Mark runs his hand through his hair, tugging the strands exasperatedly and seeing pesky grains of sediment cascade down the drain. After making sure he’s clean, Mark’s thoroughly exhausted. He rests his arm against the wall and his forehead against his arm, and closes his eyes, relaxing in the heat of the jet.

_Mouth that smirks playfully. Eyes that glitter mischievously. Nose that twitches knowingly. Hands that roam teasingly. Mark’s lips on someone else’s skin, the taste of salt and sugar exquisitely contrary on his tastebuds. Roguish whispers that encourage him to do exactly what he knows he shouldn’t do. The scalding water falls around them, steaming up the shower and making it harder than it already is to breathe. Mark doesn’t care. All he can register is the heat of the moment. Bodies pressed together as if they are the water and they are also the outlaw wandering alone, parched in the desert with nothing, nothing, nothing. Skin slides sinfully against skin, bringing them impossibly closer together, and Mark vaguely thinks that he’s never going to get tired of this. His brain high on the rush of dopamine, borderline sensory overload._

No. _Stop_. Mark shakes himself out of the daze and scolds himself that everything is in the past. He’s in the present now. He’s in the future now. Only he himself can make his own destiny. By now, the spray has gone colder. Mark decides that it’s time to get out and rest. He teeters out of the shower, grabbing a towel off of his shelf of many towels and wrapping it around his bottom half, drops of water sliding down his chest and dripping out of his hair.

Mark somehow makes it to his bed, the plush, white linen brushing against his skin. The moon softly shines in through the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Mark feels strangely comforted by the gentle rays of luminescence. He rolls over onto his back, head turned to face the outside. There’s a certain quiet serenity that lulls Mark’s eyes shut. He feels like he’s floating, like he’s still face down in the depths of the ocean, being carried by the currents leading back to the shore.

_“Don’t go too far out!” “The currents always lead to the shore, Mark!” “I know that already!” “So why are you telling me what I already know too?”_

Mark feels like the moon as well. Quiet, calm, many phases and patterns and the routine of conformity. There’s nothing new in this routine of his, he’s sure. He can’t really tell if he’s done this before or not. How many times has he stared out of this very window, a melancholy weight resting in his heart? How many times has he lain in this exact spot, stuck and lonely? Mark ponders these thoughts until sleep claims his tired mind and leads him to the blissful nothingness of the dark.

It’s not even dawn when Mark opens his eyes again. He wonders if he ever fell asleep at all, but judging from the bleariness of his eyes and the fuzzy cotton taste in his mouth he has. Mark groans as he heaves himself into a sitting position, the damp towel from the night before slumping ungracefully to the floor with a small thump. Mark pays it no mind, instead chooses to stare out of the window. Everything is quiet, the world not yet awake. The moon, still constant, is shining brightly. The stars twinkle in and out of view one by one.

_It at least brings me comfort to know that we are standing under and looking up at the same sky…_

A tear makes its way out of Mark’s eye. It slips down his cheek, down to his chin, and drips onto the sheets. Mark feels his shoulders threaten to shake with the weight of the world. He’s filled with an indescribable sense of loss and disappointment. Like the feeling of being on the verge of completing a massive jigsaw puzzle, only to find that the last piece is missing. Mark was almost complete. Mark is almost complete. But there’s always that one part of him that’s always going to be missing.

But this is no time to reminisce and wish and hope. Mark has to go. He has to go try again. He vaguely remembers vowing that he would try and try and try until he got it right. Until the day he died.

So Mark heaves himself out of bed, stooping down to pick up the fallen towel and throwing into a basket along with the many other towels from the previous nights. He makes his way to the closet, opening the doors to be greeted with a vast collection of white dress shirts, black suits, and pairs and pairs of the same pair of leather shoes. He picks out one of each, pulls them on, and goes to the bathroom again. He wears this outfit every day, yet he never grows tired of it. It’s an ever-present reminder of what he has done and what he has failed to do.

The cuts and bruises on his face have healed somewhat. The yellows have faded to an ugly green, and the brown is turning a deep purple. Mark fixes his hair, which sticks up annoyingly on one side. He tames it with his fingers and after a couple minutes decides that it’s pointless to even try.

It’s time to head out.

Mark walks through his house, tracing the steps that he’s walked millions of times before. He heads out of a back door, down a different path than the one he entered, before coming to a stop in front of a car. It’s an old black sports car, paint sleek and flawless. He sighs, opening the driver’s side door and getting in. With the key appearing in hand and no hesitation at all, his hands automatically start the car. He subconsciously checks his mirrors (even though there’s really no need to) and adjusts his seat redundantly, as he’s sure he’s sat inside this car millions of times as well.

Mark drives out onto a road. It’s a nice road, probably recently paved, with no cracks or rubble. He follows it, speeding along the wide expanse of smooth asphalt. The area is surrounded by the shadows of tall trees. It’s still dark out, but the headlights on Mark’s vehicle show him the way. Mark follows the yellow and white and black lines without question. It seems to know where he’s going, even if he doesn’t know himself.

The road forks, and something inside Mark urges him to go to the right. Both of the roads look the same, so Mark obliges his conscience and takes the right road. He drives for a little while after that, soon realizing that the path is just a really long driveway, and that the house at the end of it is absolutely massive. Mark gulps, foot pressing more on the gas. He has to get inside the house. Something’s beckoning him there. Mark pulls up, jumps out, and dashes through the front door, not even bothering to knock or observe the outside.

He runs through the elegant rooms draped with the finest silks and velvets and wooden furniture. Mark’s looking for one particular study, one that he knows contains something important, yet he doesn’t know what. He gives each a cursory glance as he peeks into doorways. There are many types of rooms, all vacant. Studies, libraries, living quarters, bathrooms, sitting rooms, piano rooms.

And then he finds it. Mark stumbles into it, breathing hard, a bead of sweat streaking down his left temple. The room is huge, with nothing but an expensive lacquered desk, two lamps on its surface, and two chairs. The two large windows tell Mark that the sun hasn’t risen yet.

At the desk is a man. Mark doesn’t know his name until Mark’s mouth opens of its own accord. “Taeyong.”

The man looks up at Mark, like an automaton coming to life after a century of in-animation. His hair is a snowy white, falling softly over his forehead. His jawline is sharp, features perfectly placed on his face. His eyes are large, piercing. Mark doesn’t feel scrutinized though. He feels warm, welcome. As if this man is his father or an older brother, someone to take care of him and will listen to his troubles without judgement. “Mark Lee. Why are you here?” There’s a strange lilt to Taeyong’s voice. Mark deduces that Taeyong already knows the answer to the seemingly inessential question.

Mark doesn’t know why he’s here. But he does. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Taeyong says, looking down. His hands move in a flurry, and suddenly there’s a threatening-looking box on the desk. “Sit. Let’s talk for a bit.” Mark hesitantly makes his way to the chair, sitting down. Taeyong stares intently at him, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the box. Mark’s mind is entirely blank. He has no idea what should come out of his mouth and what should not. He wrings his hands in his lap.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” Mark murmurs.

Taeyong shrugs. “It’s not a matter of not knowing what to say. Just say anything. Tell me your dreams, your fears, your aspirations. You haven’t seen anything abnormal, have you?” His sentences seem rehearsed, Mark notes. Like they’re actors in a badly written movie, tired of the script yet filming millions of takes just to satisfy the director. Have they done this before? How many pieces of an infinite puzzle have they put together, completed?

“Well,” Mark begins. “I remember someone. One person. Always on my mind.”

Taeyong doesn’t look surprised. “Do you know who they are?” he inquires. Mark shakes his head. Taeyong doesn’t even blink. He looks somewhat bored, even. “I’m not bored, Mark Lee.”

Mark’s startled. How did Taeyong know whathe was thinking? “I just see them in my mind’s eye. I don’t know who they are, but there’s this indescribable feeling of just _yearning_. Like I’ve loved them before, you know?” Taeyong nods slowly, so Mark continues, “I don’t know where they went or why they left. I can’t put a face to the feeling nor a name to the face.” Mark inhales shakily. “Can you tell me?”

Taeyong seems to freeze, before shaking his head. “I know it seems cruel to say this, but you need to figure those things out on your own.”

Mark’s exasperated. “Why?” Taeyong’s lips fix themselves into a straight line and all emotion dissolves from his face. He doesn’t answer. Mark’s throat starts to close up, the words he wants to stay getting stuck on the tip of his tongue. His voice trembles, and he hates it.

“I just want to see him.”

Mark’s surprised at his own ability to form coherent syllables. But what surprises him even more is the fact that he said _him_ instead of _her._ Taeyong doesn’t flinch, nor move a muscle. His eyes go in and out of focus, like he’s not even in the room with Mark anymore. His fingers have stopped tapping, and Mark holds his breath. Then Taeyong rests his hand on the box, opening the lid painstakingly. His slim, pale fingers draw something out. It’s a slip of paper. Mark holds his hand out instinctively, ready to receive whatever’s on it.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Taeyong mutters. His eyes sift though Mark’s soul. Mark knows he should feel intimidated, but all he feels is stone cold determination. He’s done this for what feels like eons, and he’s ready to do it for eons more. Mark snatches the paper wordlessly and pockets it. Taeyong shuts the box with a snap. Mark stands up, bows, and departs. But before he exits, Taeyong’s voice rings out hoarsely. “Do you know how many times you’ve done this? When are you going to realize that it’s never going to work?” There’s no anger in his voice at all, only fatigue. Mark looks back at him wordlessly.

Mark bolts out of the house, gets in his car, speeding off like the wind. He lets out the breath, able to finally think without suffocating. He rolls down the window, the dark whistling all around him. It’s time to go left now. Mark drives and drives and drives. His mind is fully awake, his subconscious directing him to whatever destiny awaits.

Mark comes to a cliff soon. He parks his car and plops down on the hood, face turned up at the sky. The stars are fading, he sees. The moon is blending more into the lightening expanse above him. The sun starts to peek out above the horizon. Mark thinks it’s beautiful. The peace and quiet soothe his wild and rambling thoughts. Fresh rays of light wash over his face. Mark pulls out the slip of paper tucked safely away in his breast pocket. He studies it, the number becoming ingrained into his memory. It’s a large number.

_Do you know how many times you’ve done this?_

_Yes._

_When are you going to realize that it’s never going to work?_

_Never._

Mark waits for what must be another small eternity, until he’s completely engulfed in the the glow of sunrise. He feels nourished, strong. He feels invulnerable, capable of anything. He decides it’s time to go. Mark hops back into the car, driving down a dirt path on the side of the cliff. He follows another twisty rudimentary road until he comes back to the ocean. And across the ocean he can see the faint outline of a city.

The next few hours are a blur. He somehow drives and drives and drives again. The city gets closer and the road gets smoother. Mark doesn’t know how he knows how to get to wherever he’s going; it must be muscle memory.

_“You fool, do you even know where we’re going?” “Of course I do!” “Then how come the map is upside down?” “No it isn’t—oh shit wait...” “I told you!” “You didn’t tell me anything. I know perfectly well where we’re going.” The truth is, Mark doesn’t even know where he’s driving. The dark isn’t helping, either. He just hopes to pull over at one point he deems suitable and just have a midnight picnic there. Something catches his eye. It appears to be a cliff. “Here we are,” he says. They get out, flicking on their flashlights and setting down their blanket on the dirt. Mark fetches the cold beers from the back of the car, and they sip in silence, serenaded by the creatures of the night and the bewitching silence. Mark feels the warm body cuddle up against him. He feels drunk and high at the same time, but he’s only had half of his drink. He wraps his arms around his companion, inhaling the strawberry-scented shampoo and kissing the soft hair tenderly. They bask in the sunrise together, all troubles forgotten._

And then suddenly Mark’s in the city. He can see the glittering stretch of water shimmering in his rearview mirrors. The buildings are dilapidated, worn. There are no people on the streets. There’s no movement, no cars, nothing. He feels desolate, empty inside. Mark can sense the anxiety in his chest flare up again, making his lungs constrict with unwanted nervousness. He slows down, no longer going at the speed of light. Mark knows what’s ahead, muscles tensing in anticipation.

He looks for the familiar yet unfamiliar building. It’s a skyscraper; the tallest one in town. He parks in front of it, getting out of his car, tilting his head back to look at the top. Mark exhales anxiously. He rubs his hands together, steeling himself before strutting up the stairs, heaving the enormous doors open, and heading inside.

The first thing Mark notices is the interior, how pure white it is. The walls and the infinitely high ceiling emulate a soft pulsating radiance. Mark feels lightheaded, overwhelmed. This place is foreign, wrong.

And then Mark observes the floor. It’s littered with black scuffs, and _dear lord_ , is that blood? Mark gulps, leaning against the door at his back, thankful for its support, because without it the next thing he sees would surely make his knees give out.

It’s _him_. He’s sitting at the other end of the room on a throne of some sort. Mark doesn’t know his name, just knows that he is the person that Mark has been craving in his visions, in his soul, every minute of every day. His face is hard, eyes piercing and unforgiving. Mark feels distraught, discouraged. He can feel his own features falling in despondency. The boy says nothing. This is not how Mark remembers him. The boy in his dreams is smiling, laughing, loving. _Living_. This person is utter rock, unreachable. What happened? Mark finds the strength to stand upright, shoulders back. The boy remains motionless.

And then black-clothed figures flood the room. Mark assumes a defensive stance, hands ready at his side to protect himself. Mark looks at the boy, pleading silently to let him…let him….let him do what? The boy only shifts in his seat to rest his delicate chin on his immaculate hand, unamused. The men rush toward Mark, brandishing various weapons. Mark feels a rush of fear clog his veins and make his heart run frantically.

Mark is once again saved by his muscle memory. Something in his dormant mind awakens and compels him to dodge and kick and punch and twist. Mark sees so many black-clad limbs thrashing around him that he just lets his instinct take over. But no matter how many people he fells, there are always more to replace them. He’s breathing so hard now, appendages sore. His knuckles are bleeding and his legs and lungs are screaming at him to let them take a break. But he can’t. He needs to reach _him_.

Mark manages to fight off each one of them. By the time he’s done, his hands are coated in blood and everything is sore and hurts. Mark stumbles to the throne, kneeling in front of him like a simpering subject eager to please their tyrannical ruler.

Mark studies him carefully. Tan skin, glowing golden like the sunrises and the sunsets. Lips rosy red like the strawberries they liked to eat together, the juice dripping off of their sticky fingers. His eyes that used to be pools of molten chocolate that Mark wanted to go swimming in, but now are like dull rust, hard and bitter. Yet this boy is beautiful, beautiful like the sunsets and the sunrises and the strawberries and the chocolate. Beautiful, Mark thinks, and nothing could ever change his mind.

Mark begs him inaudibly to explain _everything_. Mark wants to say so many things, the words want to pour out of his throat. The heaviness in his heart is nothing. It feels like his chest is going to split in two with the amount of pain Mark feels. His eyes tear up, and Mark reaches a hand out to him. The boy, however, doesn’t react. His vehement gaze remains unfeeling. He just sighs, looking beyond Mark.

It’s too late. Mark feels too-strong arms start to drag him away. Mark lets out a guttural cry. “No!” he yells. “Please!” _Please what?_ Mark just knows that he needs to stay. But he doesn’t know for what. He doesn’t know anything because nobody will tell him.

Yet the boy is getting farther and farther away. “H—!” Mark can’t remember his name. It refuses to come out. It’s on the tip of his tongue.

 _Hyuck_.

 _Donghyuck_.

But by this time Mark is already out the door. He’s being beaten. He curls in on himself. He was close, so close. Hard shoes kick his ribs in, making him whine pitifully. He wants everything to stop. He wants to give up. He wants to die.

_“Would you die for me?” Donghyuck asks._

_“Yes, always,” Mark answers without missing a beat._

_“Do you love me?”_

_“Yes, always.” And the Donghyuck’s pretty laugh pierces the air and Mark falls in love all over again._

_Because Donghyuck is the sunrise, the sunset. He’s the colors that fill the air, the sweet smell of strawberry shampoo. He’s the burst of rich chocolate on Mark’s tongue. He’s the carefree laughs and the days spent dozing in the glow of afternoon. He’s the glistening surface of the ocean, the great vastness of the unknown and the thrill that awaits Mark at the beginning of each day. He’s the prolonged car rides to nowhere, hand surfing imaginary waves out the window. He’s the silence and the nothingness and the peace in Mark’s heart._

That’s the memory that Mark clings onto as he’s being stepped on. Bruised. Pommeled. Battered like the sand on the beach by the waves. Over and over and over again in this endless cycle that continues on for infinity.

After he’s rendered nearly senseless, Mark barely registers his body being moved. He’s being dragged somewhere. He can hear the dull throb of his blood pulsing in his ears, taste the acrid zest of blood in his mouth. His head, oh god, his head pounds excruciatingly. There’s another throb, but it’s coming from above. He’s being lifted by merciless hands that squeeze his arms far too much. It’s the muffled beat of helicopter blades. They’re flying, airborne. Mark feels empty.

_Mark is Donghyuck’s._

_But Donghyuck isn’t Mark’s._

Mark can hear the vague formations of voices yelling. The thuds of the chopper’s blades. He can feel the cold floor of the helicopter beneath his injured face, and then suddenly he can’t. He can feel himself falling, falling, falling down. Is it just his imagination?

He hits the water with a splash, and everything goes black.

_I’ll find you again, Donghyuck._

 

 

 

 

Mark wakes up on the beach again, the familiar feeling of despair fresh and heavy in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> hiya...i know it's been a while since i've written something that isn't a piece of garbage, so here you go. i was recently inspired by my revival of listening to music sung in chinese, so yeah that's what happened. sorry if the ending is a little rushed. this is based on z.tao's (former exo) crown music video, so i highly suggest you go watch it :) !


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